//------------------------------// // 1 - Welcome to Delta // Story: Gloaming // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// Delta was the kind of quiet, content little town where nothing really happened and that suited everypony just fine. It ran mostly on lumber, with a little mining on the side, making it a very blue-collar sort of place. It rained a lot, but that couldn’t be helped; as the winds came down from the North Luna Ocean, they carried a lot of water in them, and the Weather Department had to dump it all somewhere. It was voluntary on Delta’s part, since a big, steady supply of water helped the trees grow quickly. It wasn’t growing explosively, but it was dug-in and thriving; it’d take a lot to dislodge these lumberers. So when the murders began, I was called in. It was drizzling rather than pouring, so I could get a better look outside as our carriage rolled down the road. Not that there was much to look at; the forest hadn’t changed for… two hours? Three? Something like that. Still, it was nice to be able to see out, and at least the rain wasn’t pounding the world’s most off-beat drumline on the roof. I felt bad for our driver, but both times I’d asked how she was feeling, she’d just laughed and said she’d pulled carriages in much worse weather than this. One last try. I rolled down the window and leaned into the drizzle. “Hey!” I yelled to the driver. “You’re sure you-” She pulled her muzzle out of her feedbag to smirk at me. “Lady,” she said, “this weather’s nothing. And if you think I’m getting tired, I’m a draft pony of the earth tribe with a cutie mark in carriage-pulling. I could go nonstop for days on nothing but grains and a gallon of water.” I sniffed. Even through the rain, I could tell she wasn’t eating grains. “And what’ve you got now?” “Coffee beans and electrolyte drinks. If you tried to replace me, I’d kick the inside of the carriage out before we’d gone a mile to get rid of all my energy.” “Fine. Won’t be asking again.” And I finally meant it. I sat back down, rolled the window up, and turned my attention to the carriage’s only other occupant. My daughter hadn’t moved much, which had me worried. Even if she wasn’t the life of the party, she was still the upbeat kind. I’d never seen her this listless before, not even that one time she was sick with the flu and spent all night in the bathroom vomiting or feeling ready to vomit. I cleared my throat. “Levanta?” She sort of flopped her head over to look at me without moving the rest of her body. “Yeah?” Her voice was dull, flat, almost lifeless. “Are you doing okay?” “Fine, Mom.” She flopped her head back to look out the window. “Just like the last ten times you asked me.” Translation: she wasn’t fine at all. When I first got the decree ordering me to Delta, she’d said she was okay with it. I thought I knew her pretty well, but now, I could only wonder if she’d been lying. “You’re sure?” “Pretty sure.” “You don’t feel cooped up at all? You can go for a flight as long as you don’t stray too far from the carriage.” Levanta’s wings rustled slightly, but that was it. “I said I’m fine.” The late stages of adolescence are the worst. Not because teens are at their most rebellious or most independent (even though they are), but because they’re so close to adulthood that they feel the need to act Very Grown Up and be Independent and they Don’t Want Your Help, Mother. They have the last little bit of immaturity left that’s terrified of looking immature and avoid (gasp) parental help at all costs. 10-year-old Levanta would’ve told me all about this before we even got in the carriage. 16-year-old Levanta felt the need to struggle in silence no matter how many lifelines I tossed her way, and I was running out of ways to reach her. “Listen…” I leaned closer to her. “I know you’re almost an adult, but there’s nothing wrong with talking to me if you need to. Don’t think I can’t see how you’re acting.” “Mmhmm.” Levanta hadn’t even twitched. Resigned, I settled back into my seat and stared out the window. I wasn’t good at thinking in carriages. But once we were settled in a little, I’d start drilling her daily. No sugarcoating, no cushioning. I’d drag her a sunblasted therapist if I had to. I couldn’t let her wallow like this. I really wished Delta had a train station, but the mountains were unkind to railroads and the expense was too high, or so I’d been told. The only way into town from a long way away was carriages (for passengers) and carts (for cargo). Our own carriage had a cart attached to the back with all of our property for the move, but once we pulled into Delta at sunset, I was suddenly paranoid the waterproofed covering hadn’t been enchanted properly and everything would be ruined. I tried to take my mind off it by examining Delta. I knew this kind of town; I’d worked in over half a dozen ones just like it. Everypony knew everypony, the police were underworked, and ponies rarely came or left. Slightly societally insular, maybe, but very friendly. The buildings, seen through the rain and encroaching darkness, looked well-kept and were painted in bright colors. I wondered if the colors were so bright to make them visible in the rain. The road could use a bit of work — the carriage was bouncing quite a bit — but it was alright. Besides, I doubted I’d be using a carriage again until I left, and I had no problem with uneven ground. I glanced at Levanta. She was looking out her own window with (at best) mild interest. With Delta being such a small town, it wasn’t long before we arrived at our house. It was fronted by a porch and, as I’d been told, small, which was fine, since Levanta and I didn’t need much more. It had been painted robin’s-egg-blue sometime recently; the wood looked old, but the color looked new. The yard was large, with a tree growing in the center of it. The windows were neat, square, and welcoming. From the outside, at least, it looked nice enough, if you ignored the “For Sale SOLD” sign on the front lawn. Once the driver came to a stop, I’d exited the carriage and gone to the cart in the back, not caring about the rain. I peeked under the tarp. My fears turned out to be unfounded; everything was as dry as could be. I quickly pulled out a certain box and trotted it inside. I’d put the sheets in last, so I’d know where they were and we could make the beds quickly once everything was unpacked. By the time I was back at the cart, the driver had unhitched herself and was balancing three boxes on her back. “You know I got this, right?” she asked. The box tower barely teetered as she walked. Considering she was an earth pony, I wasn’t sure how she’d gotten it set up in the first place. “It was in the contract.” “I know,” I said. I pulled out another box. The driver chuckled. “Well, if you wanna.” The second time back, I rapped on the other door of the carriage. Levanta still hadn’t come out yet. “Hey. Levvi. If you want, you can head inside.” Levanta looked at me, sighed, and dropped from the carriage. “Alright.” She took a step forward. “And if you’re looking for something to do, could you try to sort the boxes a little? I don’t want to spend the evening trying to find where we put the silverware.” “Sure, Mom,” mumbled Levanta. She loped to the house, her wings over her head to block out the rain. The driver watched her go. “She’s not always like that, is she?” “No. Not at all.” “Sorry. Moving’s always hard. I’ve seen my fair share of ponies like her.” My coat was almost soaking by the time we got all the boxes in. Luckily, the porch provided enough shelter for me to shake myself off without getting everything inside wet. The boxes escaped a drenching. The driver trotted in. “Triple-checked. That’s the last of it, unless you had something in the carriage…?” “Nothing that we haven’t brought in.” “Good, good,” the driver said, nodding. “Thank you for your service, ma’am, and-” She extricated a clipboard from her saddlebags. “-if you’ll just sign here…” I scribbled Swan Dive on the dotted line, initialed here, initialed there, signed over there, and we were good to go. “Thaaaaank you,” said the driver, retrieving the clipboard. “Hope you have a pleasant stay.” She tipped an invisible hat and trotted out the door. And we were moved in. Not yet officially, since none of the boxes had been unpacked, but that was all that was left to do. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d been the one who’d pulled the carriage and cart how many dozens of miles. It wasn’t physical weariness; it was the “I don’t want to do anything” of burnout. You’d think I’d be used to moving by now. But burnout or no, we still needed dinner. Levanta was stretched out on her back on the couch, her wings splayed out, one front and one rear hoof both dangling over the edge to touch the floor. I cleared my throat. “I know it’s late, Levanta, so do you want me to just go out and order pizza? Or subs?” It wasn’t completely a weak attempt to cheer her up; Levanta’s the one who does the cooking and I knew she was tired. Among other things. “Subs,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “BLT.” “Mayo?” I probed. “Mom, you know I hate mayo.” Probe failure. She hadn’t even looked at me. I sighed and got to my hooves. There was a map of Delta in one of the smaller boxes; I’d need to find a sub place on it. When I found the map, I looked through it on autopilot as I tried to think of something to say to Levanta. Thunderhead had always been more personable than me; he’d’ve known what to do. But he was gone, so it was just me and her. How long could this relationship last? One of the benefits of small towns: it was hard to get lost. Going from my house to (what I assumed was) the town square took only a few minutes. With the sun mostly set, the streetlamps were being lit. It was still raining, but I didn’t bring an umbrella. A little water wasn’t going to hurt me. The few ponies still out and about didn’t look twice at me. The restaurant I was looking for wasn’t in the square, but I’d memorized the map and knew it wasn’t far off, either. I paced around the fountain in the middle, orienting myself. “Okay,” I muttered, “Halter Couture is over there, and that’s the northwest corner of the square, so-” “Lost?” I jumped in surprise, something that hadn’t happened in years. An earth stallion had snuck up on me out of nowhere, almost literally; I hadn’t known somepony could move that quietly. “Not really,” I said, trying to collect my thoughts. “Just looking.” “Hmm?” He smiled. “For what?” Maybe it was the near-darkness and the rain, but his coat looked to be a weird, pallid blue. His eyes were one of the most striking shades of bronzy-orange I’d ever seen. “Just a- sub place,” I said. I kept my voice level. Something about him — his sudden appearance, maybe — didn’t sit right with me. He felt… oily, almost. Like his smile wasn’t completely genuine. “Easy. Reinaldi’s is-” “A few streets over that way, I know.” I set off in the relevant direction. “Hey!” He caught up faster than I would’ve guessed. “Name’s Crooked River. You new? I haven’t seen you around before.” “Kinda. Just moved here.” “What’s your name?” We turned a corner. I could see the shop down at the end of the street. “Swan Dive.” “C’mon, Swan, I-” “Look,” I said, turning on him. “No offense, but I just spent the last day traveling. I’m beat and hungry and not in the mood.” I wiped a damp bit of mane out of my eyes. “So could you leave me alone for now?” Crooked River stopped on a bit. One of his ears twitched, then he broke out in that smile again. “Right. Sorry. Maybe I’ll see you around?” I shrugged noncommittally and grunted. “Yeah. Maybe.” He raised his nose and sniffed. “Food smells good, doesn’t it?” He walked back down the street, chuckling, and vanished into the dark. Hesitantly, I sniffed. I couldn’t smell anything, not through the rain. I stared at the spot Crooked River had vanished, trying to fix his face into my memory. That was somepony I wanted to stay away from. The table had been set when I got home. I sorted out my and Levanta’s sandwiches as I called out, “Levanta! Dinner’s here!” Levanta loped into the room and we began to eat. I thought mine was more than alright. After a few bites, I glanced at Levanta. She was chewing her beets like they were made of rubber. I took another bite. Levanta kept chewing and chewing and chewing. I cleared my throat. “So? Is your sandwich good?” Levanta swallowed. “Fine.” She took another bite. “Good fine? Bad fine?” Mouth-full mumble. “Do you want me to remember this place for the future?” Swallow. “If you want.” Bite. And that was the extent of our conversation for that night. Whenever I tried talking, Levanta just happened to tear off another part of her sandwich and occupy her mouth. And right when she was done, she pushed away from the table and said, “Made the beds while you were out. Going to sleep. ’Night.” “Levanta-!” I protested. But she was already heading up the stairs. I didn’t follow. I probably should’ve, but I was at a loss as to what to do once I caught up with her. I did my best, but parenting had never really clicked for me the way ranging and surveying did. Was I a bad parent? I gave Levanta a few minutes to “settle down” before going upstairs, which consisted of not much more than two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a linen closet. I gave my room a quick once-over; it was small and the furniture was sparse, but the queen-sized bed had been made, and quite well, too. I went to the other bedroom. Knock knock. “Levanta?” Grunt. “Thanks for making the beds.” Grunt. “Sleep well. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” Grunt. I felt like I was drowning. I was flailing, trying everything I knew to no effect. Maybe I was too gentle, giving her too much leeway, but discipline had been hard for me. Not that Levanta had needed much of it; it was simply now that she needed some prodding, I couldn’t bring myself to prod hard enough. I just wasn’t the right parent for Levanta right now. Thunderhead was. Three days, I told myself. Three days. Then I’m pushing. When I finally turned in, I had the whole bed to myself. It felt empty.